"P o i s o n  P i c t u r e  P e r f e c t"

What A Pretty Little Picture

of a Lot

of Petty Pricks/What An

Ugly

Wasteful Saga

of A Lot of

Selfish Shits/What

A Nasty Little Drama

of A Lot of Boring Chums/What

a

Dulling Little

Poison From

a lot of Evil Scum/What a Pretty Little

Picture of a Scheming

Wicked Witch/What a Tired

Hateful Scripture

From a Lying

Evil Bitch/

15,…

the grumbling armies of glum

curse the arch of the sun

for speeding rotations

through well earned vacations

then reeling when Mondays come

I pack my memories in little cages,

Wild beasts of an intemperate youth,

The struggle against the walls of time

And seek recognition-an admission of guilt.

But I am past the gremlins of that time.

No amount of persuasion will allow me to set them free.

However, the past clings to our skin like some terrible odour which

Present fragrances cannot mask nor dispel.

So at the helm of all affairs I struggle to shut the lid…

If you're in Melbourne tomorrow night join us at Kris Hemensley's Collected Works Bookshop (37 Swanston Street) at 6pm for the Melbourne launch of John Foulcher's new collection The Sunset Assumption by Robyn Rowland.

http://www.facebook.com/events/260705790702167/

"A Nasty, Selfish Dream of a Life"



Real relationships

are appreciated because

they are Open Channels

of Communication/which have access

to Unlimited Power

because of the Unlimited Sharing

that happens/in the process/in the process/

In the Process/False relationships

are as equally appealing,/in a Lusty kind of a way:

ways usually only found in Fantasy,/ but they do get old./You do too, chasing these Sick Ghosts of a Life/like

Sugar…

Let the winds blow and scatter these fallen leaves.

I couldn't rake these pieces of my life into a comfortable heap,

That would fit into the fireplace and burn away a scorching memory.

Scarred for life, my experience was my only beacon in the darkness that surrounded me.

Some years later I was reminded, my experience is a falsehood.

A pitiful reflection off cracked mirrors that distort reality.

Whose reality should I fall back…

At the traffic lights, people

brace themselves against

a blustery wind sweeping

the pavements.

As they wait for the lights to

change, a blue plastic bag comes

skimming along the street,

at the corner it is lifted and

swirls around the legs of the

pedestrians, then another

stronger gust carries it into the

middle of the intersection.

Finally, it rises at great speed

on the wind, away and over…

The Illusion

of Fame and Glory

 …

"That Which Depends on Darkness to Be Seen"



It never was a question of

a Dream

within a Dream/



It never was a moment pure

and kept clean

of a Scream/



A Scream within a Scream is what

You Make of Every Dream/A Scream

Within a Scream

is What

You Make of Every Dream/;



You Nightmare back and forth

And Really…

Truth be told

It's these Old Things/For

I know why

they Echo Wind/

More Truth

to Cause/It's These Old Things

Are These Old Songs

I call My Wings/

The Truth

At Heart/Its These Old Flaws/

Its These New Songs/

Its These New Wings/to Soar

Unflawed/and preach the Sky/..

For…

I was on a ship not long ago

That seemed destined to reach the horizon soon.

But you could tell from the growling and grinding of the engines,

The furrowed brows of weary seaman and bleeding deckhands,

That the captain’s dream was paved with  bloody sacrifice.

Our lives became a living dreamtime story.

Blurring sunrise and sunset till the holy Sabbath

Became depressing metaphor.

I saw the flag fluttering…

Thank you to everyone who joined Anna Kerdijk Nicholson and I at Gilbert's of Mittagong yesterday for a chat about her poetry; the what, how and why.



Anna Kerdijk Nicholson currently holds a position on the Board of Directors of Australian Poetry and was previously an editor for Five Bells. Along with Anna's contributions to the Australian poetry writing community, she has published two books of poetry, the first of which, The Bundanon Cantos, was mentioned in the…

On the 19^thof May I sprang out of bed, printed out a selection of my poems and headed to the State Library of NSW. With my precious poems clung to my chest I found my way to the Mitchell Meeting Room and made myself a cup of tea in anticipation of a day workshopping with David Brooks. Fifteen eager poets sat down to learn ‘the secrets of poetry’.